Page 15 of The One That I Want

‘Have a love life,’ I reply.

‘First, it’s not a love life, it’s a sex life.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Second,I’mnot a workaholic.’

‘Well, no,’ I reply, acknowledging that it’s no secret Iamone – bychoice. It’s a core part of my identity, one I am exceedingly proud of! (I know, I know, methinks the lady doth protest too much.)

‘And third, there is a big difference between what you want and what I have with my…’ She trails off without attaching a fitting label – Tiggy detests labels. She also detests the idea ofbeing tied to one person. Her bedroom should have a revolving door.

‘Lovers?’ I ask.

She grins at me, shaking her head. ‘You cow. You know I hate that word. It’sicky. Right up there with panties and?—’

‘Moist!’ we shout together.

We fall about laughing. Idiotic really, but we’ve been laughing at the word ‘moist’ since Food Technology in Year 8. Our teacher couldn’t stop exclaiming how moist Trevor Landry’s flapjacks were and by the end of the lesson, all thirty pupils were in fits. Poor thing. She could barely look at us after that.

Our laughter subsides and, in unison, we sigh one of those contented I-needed-a-good-laugh sighs.

‘Right, so back to you and your assignment,’ says Tiggy.

I groan, then drink a generous glug of wine. We should probably order food soon or I willdefinitelybe hungover tomorrow. I reach for my phone and open the delivery app.

‘Are you listening?’

‘Sort of,’ I admit.

‘Greta, look at me,’ she says in an appalling Australian accent. This is her doing Kath fromKath and Kim, something we were obsessed with in our final year of school. We’d recite entire scenes together, but my accent was much better than hers. Don’t tell her I said that.

‘All right! I’m looking at you.’

‘Good.’

‘Good.’

She rolls her eyes again and I stifle a laugh. This type of bestie banter is par for the course with us, especially this far into a bottle of wine. ‘Do you want to hear what I think?’

‘Do I have a choice?’ I ask, already knowing the answer.

‘No.’

‘Then proceed,’ I say with a flourish of my free hand. I down the rest of my wine and reach for the bottle.

‘Less than a month after you have this major realisation, thisepiphanythat you aren’t getting any younger and there may be more to life than work, a professional matchmaker practically lands in your lap. Forfree. You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth. So, instead of moaning about it, you might as well take the assignment and see what comes of it.’

‘I hate it when you make sense.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she retorts.

‘Even if it means I have homework to do over the weekend.’

‘Homework?’ she asks.

I point to the quarter inch-thick stack of paper sitting on the coffee table. ‘Thatis the client questionnaire for the matchmaking agency.’

‘Good god!’ She picks it up and starts thumbing through it.

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